I wanted to scream. To tear that red dress from her shoulders. To shove Daniel to the ground and demand he look at the coffin he helped fill. But I did nothing.
I clenched my jaw. I stared at my daughter’s casket. I breathed. Because if I opened my mouth, it wouldn’t be words that came out—it would be something feral.
Emily had come to my house more than once in long sleeves during July.
“I’m just cold, Mom,” she’d say.
Other times she wore a tight smile and eyes that had clearly cried in private.
“Daniel’s just stressed,” she’d repeat, as if that explained everything.
I’d tell her, “Come stay with me. You’re safe here.”
And she’d say, “He’ll change, Mom. When the baby’s born, he’ll change.”
Who doesn’t want to believe their child when they look at you like that?
Daniel sat in the front pew like he owned the place. Crossed his legs. Wrapped his arm around the woman in red. He even chuckled when the pastor said, “eternal love.”
I felt sick.
That’s when I saw Michael Harper—Emily’s attorney—rise from the side aisle. I didn’t know him well. Serious man. Gray suit. Steady hands. He carried a sealed envelope like it weighed a hundred pounds.
When he reached the front, he cleared his throat.